


Concussion

by thesynapticsnap



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, Goldenfrost, Humor, M/M, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesynapticsnap/pseuds/thesynapticsnap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Kozmotis Pitchiner gets a rather flirty patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concussion

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Blackice Advent Calendar 2013, "Slipping on Ice" prompt. X-posting from tumblr. 
> 
> Artwork (c) fearking/Moira Absinthe.

Dr. Kozmotis Pitchiner doesn’t often get to know his patients anymore. He’d done enough time as the friendly, smiling doctor willing to answer questions, and now he’s a very busy man who has far more important things to do than ‘talk to people’ or ‘offer warmth and sympathy’. Talking is for the hopeful interns who aren’t yet jaded from years of the same tedium. Being friendly and spending more than five minutes with someone is for pretty young nurses. Those things are certainly not tasks meant for him — he’s tenured, for God’s sake.

Which is why, for the life of him, he can’t understand why he’s still sitting on the edge of a patient’s bed half an hour after he entered the room. Thirty minutes forever lost. Thirty precious minutes he could have been in his office watching those funny cat videos his daughter emailed him rather than working on his latest grant proposal.

According to the chart the kid’s name is Jack and he’s 20, but he looks like a 15-year-old punk who’s just stumbled out of a smoky high school men’s room. Between the peroxide-bleached hair, lip piercings, and tattoo peeking from the collar of his gown (not to mention those awful ratty clothes he was wearing when they’d brought him in) he’s exactly the sort of kid Dr. Pitchiner fears his sweet baby daughter becoming when she grows up.

Jack is as immature as his choice of attire suggests. He landed himself in neurology for a rather severe concussion, obtained, according to Jack’s weeping little sister, through an attempt to amuse her by skating across a patch of ice in a pair of very-unsuited-for-slippery-surfaces sneakers.

Dr. Pitchiner wonders if the concussion is to blame for Jack’s flirty smiles and the seduction woven between his words, or if he’s always a little bastard who likes to reduce grown men to a level of flustered they haven’t been since undergrad. Jack gets him so riled up that sweat is beading at the nape of his neck by the time he finally decides to turn away from his stupid pretty punkass face and glance at the clock, at which point he realizes how long he’s been there.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” he says, interrupting his flirtatious patient mid-sentence. He tugs at his collar, trying to cool down. “I’ve stayed too long. I have some work I need to catch up on—”

“Is that a tattoo, doc?” Jack asks him, just when he thought he might escape. Dr. Pitchiner blushes and pulls the folds of his labcoat together, shielding his clavicle. He always wears collared shirts to hide that damned thing, but he apparently loosened a few buttons during the course of his increasingly borderline-unethical conversation with Jack.

“It’s nothing.”

Jack grinned. “Let me see.”

“I assure you it was—”

“It was a tattoo, dammit! It was gold, I saw it. Come on, what’s the big deal? I have tattoos too.”

Jack reaches behind him and undoes the cloth string around his neck, and his hospital gown falls from his shoulders to reveal the entirety of the tattoo on his chest. Or tattoos, he should say. A line of black snowflakes trails from Jack’s pectoral up his chest, ending at his collarbone.

“You’re quite the fan of winter,” Dr. Pitchiner manages, trying not focus on the glint of silver in each of Jack’s nipples, or the fact he can make out the upper part of a rather well-defined set of abs on his patient.

_Patient. His oaths. The law. What the hell is happening…_

“I showed you mine, now you gotta show me yours, doc,” says Jack, smirking as though he knows exactly what’s running through his poor doctor’s confused mind. Which he probably does, the little shit.

“I’m not removing my shirt, Jack. Now I have some things to attend to, so —”

Dr. Pitchiner’s never had a patient attack him before, so he’s at a loss for what to do when Jack suddenly lunges at him. Shocked, he just sits frozen to the spot as Jack pulls his coat open and hooks cold fingers under the collar of his shirt. By the time he finally jerks out of his grasp (and admittedly he lets his hands linger a bit too long, even for being in a state of shock) Jack’s grinning from ear to ear.

“A snake? What’s that about?”

He should be furious. He should be storming from the room and writing a script for enough morphine to keep Jack under for a week. But instead, he’s smiling. Dr. Kozmotis ‘Oh-God-It’s-That-Grump’ Pitchiner is smiling at some punk kid who just ripped his shirt open. 

  
“Lay back down,” he says, gently pushing Jack back into bed. Jack mutters a soft ‘ow’ as his bandaged head connects with the pillow.

Dr. Pitchiner buttons his shirt as his patient clutches at his forehead, but even pain and dizziness won’t shut Jack up and he keeps asking him about the tattoo. That godforsaken snake tattoo he got his buddy to give him back when he was an idiot kid who cared more about impressing a girl than, you know, things like clean needles and tattoo artists who weren’t stoned out of their mind while they were working. It’d turned out pretty beautiful considering. Oh, but he isn’t about to tell Jack any of that, no sir.

“Let’s just say we all do foolish things when we’re young,” Dr. Pitchiner says as he stands. “Though perhaps not foolish enough to warrant a hospital stay…”

“Ah come on, don’t be that way, doc. It’s a pretty sweet tat. Anybody ever traced it with their tongue before?”

_Doctor-patient relationship, Koz. Ethics. That nurse that just walked by with her eyebrows in her hairline…_

“Get some rest,” he says. He’s impressed by his ability to repress the tremble in his voice, and even more impressed he gets to his desk before he feels the front of his pants tighten. Damn it all to hell and back.

He gets a good ten minutes of cat videos in before he feels the pager in his coat pocket buzz. He pulls it out and expects the same message he’s been getting all day from the poor nurse assigned to the punk kid who busted his ass on the ice.

Sure enough,

**RM 4 wants the hot doc.**

He reaches for the phone so he can call the nurse’s station and get someone to sedate that little devil whether he needs it or not, when the pager buzzes a second time.

**You have a tattoo?**

He’s going to need to write himself a script at this rate.


End file.
